Knight in the Nighttime: Twinborn Chronicles, #1

By J.S. Morin

Kyrus dreams of being a knight. Fate has so much more planned for him.

 

As an apprentice scribe, Kyrus has always dreamed of becoming a master and opening his own shop.

 

Developing magical powers and becoming a wizard? Not so much.

 

After all, wizards are the stuff of his dreams. Dreams where Kyrus is Brannis Solaran, a powerful knight who wields an ancient sword crafted from the essence of magic and  who's responsible for defending a city from an army of goblins led by their fierce dragon goddess.

 

Kyrus's dream world is a world of magic, mystery, and wonder. A place of goblins and their dragon gods. Of evil necromancers, immortal sorcerers, and deadly intrigue.

 

But when Kyrus attempts a spell learned in the dream world, he is shocked to find out that not only is magic real, but so is the other world!

 

When Brannis is threatened by powerful and ancient foes, Kyrus must do all he can to help save his otherworldly twin. But that's easier said than done when in the real world Kyrus is branded a witch and sentenced to death. Salvation comes from an unexpected source—from the most notorious and bloodthirsty pirate to sail the Katamic Sea.

 

Life aboard a pirate ship is not all it's cracked up to be, but at least Kyrus is free from danger. Until he learns he's not the only one with ties to the dream world and Kyrus's dual lives come crashing together with deadly consequences.

 

The Twinborn Chronicles is a 7-book series for fantasy fans sick of getting stuck waiting for "the next book." No multi-year waits, just meaty epic fantasy on demand.

You can binge this.

Binge it now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Magical Scrivener Press
• Release date: Feb 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781939233028

J.S. Morin

I am a creator of worlds and a destroyer of words. As a fantasy writer, my works range from traditional epics to futuristic fantasy with starships. I have worked as an unpaid Little League pitcher, a cashier, a student library aide, a factory grunt, a cubicle drone, and an engineer--there is some overlap in the last two. Through it all, though, I was always a storyteller. Eventually I started writing books based on the stray stories in my head, and people kept telling me to write more of them. Now, that's all I do for a living. I enjoy strategy, worldbuilding, and the fantasy author's privilege to make up words. I am a gamer, a joker, and a thinker of sideways thoughts. But I don't dance, can't sing, and my best artistic efforts fall short of your average notebook doodle. When you read my books, you are seeing me at my best. My ultimate goal is to be both clever and right at the same time. I have it on good authority that I have yet to achieve it. Visit me at jsmorin.com

Book preview

Map: Arcadia

1

THE FOREST TRAP

With his breath coming in ragged gasps, the soldier crashed through the forest. He had ceased to hear any sound of pursuit several minutes ago, but he knew they were still coming. In his heavy chain armor, he also knew that the goblins would be able to keep up with him easily; they could afford to be stealthy. Of course, they had little need for stealth, as there were hundreds of goblins in the forests, spreading out to finish off the stragglers.

The screams of his dying comrades still rang in his ears. They were long, agonized cries, as the goblins ignored the mortally wounded to pursue those soldiers still able to run. He was one of those running. Running from the hopeless battle against a foe that had been expecting them. Running to keep from hearing those gut-wrenching screams coming from his own throat. Running with the hope of finding living allies before the goblins got him. Running from the slaughter that he had just witnessed…

The errant soldier was insensible when the sentries dragged him into camp. It was obvious from his clothes and boots that he was one of their own; each of the common soldiers had been equipped with the same gear from the army quartermaster just before they set out from Korgen. Other than his clothing, though, he had nothing else with him, neither armor nor weapon, nor even any personal effects. He was exhausted, hungry, and nearly mad with fear. The sentries heard him muttering something about goblins—something that sounded urgent.

Though Brannis wanted very much to give the man some space to collect himself and gather his wits, he could hardly reprimand his men for their curiosity; he shared it in full measure. Nearly every man in camp gathered around the fire where the two sentries brought the poor soldier and sat him down. Someone thought to bring the man a blanket, for he was covered in a cold sweat. One of the cooks brought a fresh bowl of quail stew remaining from the night’s meal, and the soldier gratefully accepted it with hands still shaking from the aftereffects of what had to be fear.

As the wayward soldier downed a few mouthfuls of the delicious dinner, the rest of Brannis’s men waited in respectful silence, taking a cue from their commander. Brannis sat across the fire from the man and watched his eyes. They seemed to clear as he ate, the delirium of a full day of fearful flight no doubt being replaced by the reality of good food and friendly company. The color started to return to the man’s pale face as the warmth of the fire and the food in his belly replenished his depleted strength.

Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, seeming to remind himself of the reality that he was now relatively safe, the man looked around the assembly of faces that had gathered about him.

Thanks. I…I need to talk to your commander—whose battalion is this? I've got horrible news.

I am in command here; these are my men. I am Sir Brannis Solaran. What is your name, soldier, and how did you come to find us here?

The man turned to meet Brannis’s intent gaze and quickly lowered his eyes to the dirt.

Jodoul Brect, sir, that’s my name. They’re gone, sir, all of 'em.

There was a collective feeling of shock among the troops gathered around the fire, and a buzz of discussion started to grow and steadily increase in volume with the passing seconds as Jodoul’s declaration hung in the air. Brannis waved one hand in a downward motion, urgently gesturing for his men to quiet down. The poor soldier—Jodoul—had obviously been through some ordeal and had not quite recovered mentally. Being in the eye of a storm of speculation and questioning would do him no good. Still, Brannis needed answers, especially if his suspicions about what Jodoul meant proved to be correct.

What do you mean? Who is gone? Brannis asked in a measured tone, trying not to upset Jodoul.

Gone, dead, all of them. All of Sir Ferren’s battalion, dead except for me. The goblins came and there was nothing we could do to stop ’em. They was like evil spirits, sneakin’ up in the dark of night and swarmin’ over our camp. There was fire fallin’ from the trees and the air was filled with steel and screamin’. Jodoul gritted his teeth and squeezed shut his eyes. I can still hears them, even now. I wish I could have done somethin’ to help them, I—

How did you get away? Sir Aric interrupted. How is it that you managed to be the only one, if it is as you say, and all the others are dead?

I think that is enough for now, Brannis said. Triple the sentries; all men are to carry arms; everyone into your armor, even for sleeping. I know it is uncomfortable but so is a spear-tip in your gut, you can be sure. We must be ready for them to attack anytime now.

Brannis watched as his men started off to carry out his orders. He then turned to his knights and Jodoul.

Let us continue this discussion in private, in the planning tent, Brannis said. Iridan, you should join us as well. Brannis gave a nod to the sorcerer assigned to his battalion.

The planning tent was the only one large enough to accommodate a standing human. It was set up as a meeting place for the knights to lay out their maps and plan strategies without exposing either map or man to the elements. They removed the small table that was normally kept inside the tent, which normally sported a map of their immediate vicinity and set it outside. They then gathered inside, eight knights—the other two were seeing to the tripling of the watch—along with Jodoul and Iridan, seated themselves on the ground. The tent was originally meant to hold eight men standing around a table so ten men seated, even without the table, was rather cramped. But Jodoul was in no condition to stand for any length of time, and they needed to know everything he had seen, so they accommodated his present weakness.

Over the next several minutes, Brannis and the others came to understand the scope of the enemy they were facing. Jodoul’s account was quite thorough in its description of the carnage and the strange happenings resulting from goblin magic. Jodoul, though, left out his own actions around the time of the battle, Brannis noticed. There was something in the way he avoided such mention that made Brannis suspect the man had not acquitted himself well; Sir Aric most likely had the right tack in questioning why he was the one who survived, but Brannis had more immediate concerns than potential cowardice in the face of the enemy.

The goblins were now no doubt aware of their location—that much was easily inferred from Jodoul’s account of how they hounded him like a game hare. The only matter remaining unsettled was when they would arrive in force. If the goblins knew they were here, the campfires would only be of aid to the human army, for goblins tended on the whole to see much better in low lighting that their human counterparts. Dousing the fires would not serve to hide them but rather help to hide their small foes from them.

Iridan, bring up a fog in and around camp, Brannis ordered his friend.

Iridan nodded, then half-closed his eyes and began to chant, Zoina emintari koactu fununar, at the same time sweeping his hands back and forth in front of him, palms downward, in a close approximation of a swimming motion. He repeated the chant and continued to gesture. A fine wispiness coalesced in the air about his fingers, growing into a light fog and drifting to the ground. Within moments, the fog had spread throughout most of the campsite and was growing both thicker and deeper by the moment. Brannis, who knew the chant at least as well as did Iridan, caught himself silently mouthing the words in time with the chant. He could almost imagine that it was his own powers creating the fog in response to his own chant. As he watched the ever-growing fog, his better sense grabbed hold of his daydreaming and shook it aside.

Umm, Iridan, stop before you get it chest-high—your chest, not mine—because we still want to be able to see where we are walking. I just want to make it higher than the goblins can see over.

Iridan was nearly a foot shorter than Brannis, so the admonition was not an idle one. Brannis wanted to be sure that his men had every advantage he could manage to find.

Iridan finished the spell, satisfied that the human soldiers would still be able to see over the thick bank of fog that now obscured the campsite. It was a simple enough spell and had hardly tasked his strength at all. He glanced around, trying to think of anything else he could do to help prepare for the expected attack. Remembering the wolves, he whistled to summon them to his side. A few seconds later, he felt hot breath on his legs and heard their panting. So effective was the fog cloud that he could not even see the animals, though they were right in front of him.

Hoping that the wolves’ sense of smell would serve them well enough to navigate in the blinding fog, Iridan gestured for the wolves to move out into the surrounding woods. It was a command he had taught them so would aid in the search for game. He hoped that the wolves would not make too strong a distinction between deer and goblins as far as acceptable prey was concerned. He was not too worried, though—the creatures seemed to be quite territorial. Had his magic not deluded them into thinking of humans as part of their pack, he was sure the wolves would have attacked the soldiers already.

Iridan wracked his mind thinking what else he might be able to accomplish before the battle started but could not come up with any more ideas. He looked around, hoping to catch sight of Brannis or one of the other knights to see if one of them might have need of him. He was carefully picking his way across camp toward Brannis’s tent when he heard a pained yelp from the woods to the east. Iridan winced at the sounds of a struggle: growling, snarling, a rustling of the underbrush, and finally nothing but a few whimpers that quickly died out.

They had been waiting for hours. After the goblins had killed their wolves, Brannis had expected that they would attack the encampment soon, while they might still gain some surprise. But there sat Brannis and his knights, with Iridan as well, still waiting. Reluctantly, Brannis had ordered the men to try to get some rest, and there had already been two changes of the sentries. Few could sleep, though, knowing that their enemy was lying in wait, preparing to attack at any moment. Sleeping in chain armor was difficult enough without it also serving as a reminder of the imminent attack.

Brannis finally gave in and decided to try to get what sleep he could while he still possessed a choice in the matter. His eyelids were drifting lower by the minute, and it was taking a conscious effort to hold them up. He left Sir Lugren on watch, and he would be in command for the first few moments of battle should the enemy attack while Sir Brannis slept.

Iridan watched as his friend pillowed his head on a bundled bedroll and tried to sleep wearing plate armor, right in the middle of the camp with the rest of the knights. Even as he saw Brannis grimace in discomfort as he tried to find a position where his armor did not push at him awkwardly, he envied his friend. For his part, Iridan was planning to stay awake as long as it took, for if his magic was a few seconds too late when battle was joined, he might never join it at all. Goblins were cunning, and they would likely make an early target of the humans’ only sorcerer. Iridan meditated to try to get at least some rest without fully giving in to his body’s demands for slumber. Getting up to renew the fog as the fires slowly burned it away also helped to keep his mind alert. The channeling of aether might drain the body, but there was something about it that invigorated the mind—something not entirely unlike the effect of jumping into a body of cold water. The effect was quite temporary, but Iridan needed whatever aid he might find in keeping awake.

The other knights drew lots to determine who slept and who would keep watch. They did it for form’s sake mostly, since there was little sleep to be had that night in any event. Every cricket, every toad, every breeze might have concealed the sound of approaching goblins. It was more a matter of who would take watch standing and who would lie awake on the ground. As Iridan mused on the curious arrangement, he heard a slight throaty rasping. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he recognized the sound of snoring. Brannis, at least, had found a way to get to sleep.

2

DAWN OF MORNING

Dawn’s first rays of light peeked through the open window, illuminating the small, sparsely furnished room. Kyrus Hinterdale groaned and rolled over, turning his face from the offending light, knowing it was his own fault for leaving the window open last night. It was late spring, and the same window that had let in such fragrant, refreshing breezes overnight had robbed him of an hour’s sleep at the least. It was not that he particularly needed the extra sleep; he was quite well rested. But the sun’s unwelcome intrusion had interrupted a most interesting dream, a dream about… Drat! Now I cannot even remember!

Kyrus often remembered bits and pieces of his dreams, not just in the groggy moments immediately after awakening. As a scribe, Kyrus had little enough to add excitement to his days, without forgetting the interesting bits his slumbering mind conjured up for his entertainment each night.

With a resigned sigh, he sat up in bed, rubbed the last remnants of sleep from his bleary eyes and threw off the bed sheets.Shambling across his small room, Kyrus reached the basin he kept on a table in the corner. He splashed some tepid water over his face and looked at his reflection in the small, polished, silver mirror that his employer, Expert Davin, had given him. Kyrus saw what he had seen each morning since he’d received the gift: a pale, angular face, blue-green eyes, and a mop of sandy-blond hair, adorned with a sickly little beard, so light it was barely noticeable. He would have shaved it off, but he looked young enough that on the rare occasion he indulged in wine, the barkeeps would always ask him whether he had reached the age of accountability, which indeed he had—five years ago.

Once out on the city streets after a quick breakfast, Kyrus stretched and let out a yawn, filling his lungs with the fresh morning air. If there was a better way to start off a day, Kyrus was not aware of it. Kyrus managed a leisurely pace, his full stomach slowing his normally brisk pace somewhat. He used the extra time his early rise bought him to give himself a chance to try to figure out what Expert Davin was planning. Expert Davin had been telling him all week that he had a big surprise planned for him. The old man was normally quite jovial, but this whole business with Kyrus’s surprise, whatever it was, had him nearly giddy of late. Kyrus resolved not to consider the subject of his employer’s recent strange behavior and to focus directly on his work for the day. It was a high-minded plan and one that deep down he knew was doomed to failure, but until he actually sat down to start working, Kyrus entertained thoughts of keeping to it.

The problem was that nothing he could think of made much sense. Davin had been promising for some time now that he would get Kryus admitted to the Scriveners Guild as a full member, but that was almost a formality. Kyrus’s work was exemplary, even if he did say so himself, and a brief perusal of his work would have been enough to gain him membership, if Expert Davin recommended him. He could not picture Davin getting as worked up about the whole affair if that was it.

His favorite theory, which had Davin playing matchmaker for Kyrus with some mysterious niece, would at least explain why Davin had been so jovial lately. Davin had expressed concern a number of times to Kyrus that if he did not get out more, he would end up like Davin: an old man with no family of his own. However, Davin had told Kyrus he had only one sibling, a brother some eight years or so his senior. Kyrus snorted in amusement at the very thought. Davin was nearly old enough to be his own grandfather, and any niece Davin might have would have to be at least his mother’s age.

And my dear Juliana, I would like to introduce you to your future husband—Oh my, wait. That cannot be any apprentice of mine, looking like some sort of ink-speckled shut-in.

Kyrus grinned to himself, trying to imagine Davin introducing him to some fictional niece he could not possibly have. It was a bit of a stretch of course; Davin was less likely to notice a bit of ink and an unruly mop of hair than he was to suddenly grow his own hair back. Still, he should keep up appearances for the sake of Davin’s reputation among his colleagues, who, if he had gathered correctly from Davin’s veiled hints over the course of the week, were likely to be in attendance this evening. And besides, who knew when he might run into a woman without Davin having arranged it for him.

With no promising new theories coming to light on that particular walk, Kyrus arrived back at his employer’s establishment. The wooden sign above the door hung out toward the street on a wrought-iron bracket and swung gently in the morning breeze, proclaiming the building to belong to Davin Chartler—Expert Scrivener. The carved wooden letters were bold and plain and had been painted over in white to make them more visible against the dark-stained background. The letters were the only feature of the sign, which made it quite unique among the establishments of Scar Harbor. Most other businesses would have carved a symbol on their signs, indicating what sort of work went on there, many without even lettering to accompany them. A great many of the folk who lived in the kingdom of Acardia could not read and found the places they needed by picture. A horseshoe indicated a blacksmith, a loaf of bread adorned the bakers’ signs, and a needle and thread meant a tailor’s shop. Expert Davin had little use for the illiterate professionally, so he forewent the customary quill-and-ink pot that graced the signs of scribes throughout the rest of the kingdom. His stance had likely cost him a bit of business over the years, penning letters and writing up contracts for those who could not write, but his moral stance had gained him respect among the guild membership and freed up more of his time for other work he considered more rewarding.

Shutting the door, Kyrus was once again surrounded by a stuffy feeling in the air, at once both comfortable and a bit stifling. Visitors to the establishment frequently complained that it smelled strongly of equal parts musty old books and cat. The cat was a grey mongrel of indeterminate breeding named Ash, who had free run of the building. Ash was a mouser and quite a good one. He had worked for Davin longer than Kyrus had by some years, and his skills had given him quite a large girth; he weighed more than some dogs Kyrus had seen.

Ash’s eyes followed Kyrus’s path as he crossed the main room to his chair, which Ash was currently occupying. The chair was high-backed and solidly built out of oak, and the hard seat gave Kyrus awful aches—or at least it used to. Ever since he had gotten a cushion to pad the seat, Ash had taken to napping on it. Knowing he would not be allowed to remain in his favorite napping spot once Kyrus managed to cross the cluttered room, Ash stretched himself out and, with a sidelong look at Kyrus, hopped to the floor. Kyrus lost sight of the animal as he stepped around a small table with a chessboard on it, careful not to disturb the pieces. As he got over to his chair and sat down to begin his day’s work, he caught a glimpse of Ash padding up the stairs. Kyrus could not help but smile. The door to Davin’s room did not shut quite right, and if Ash was determined to get in…

A string of curses punctuated Kyrus’s thought: What the…? Pltheah! Get your tail out of my face! How many times do I…

Davin’s voice trailed off, and Kyrus turned to his desk and dipped a quill into his ink pot.

Good morning! Kyrus thought, then chuckled to himself.

It was nearly half an hour later before Davin emerged from upstairs, suitably dressed to meet the day. He was of an age at which a more wealthy man would have considered retiring to the countryside. Over the years, Davin had grown thick around the middle from good eating and little strenuous work, though he could hardly be considered fat. He occasionally joked that his hair behaved like a flock of sparrows: each year it migrated north, but unlike the sparrows, it inconveniently forgot the trip back south. What little was left of his once-black hair had long since gone to grey. His eyes seemed to be those of a much younger man, twinkling from behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and reflecting the joy from a broad smile.

Fair morning, my boy! How does this fine day find you?

It finds me quite well, Kyrus replied, returning his employer’s infectious smile. Has it found you yet?

Davin took the jest in the spirit in which it was given, and they settled into their morning routine. Kyrus watched Davin write for some time while feigning interest in his own work. His own quill had grown bone dry, and he had been scratching at the same beleaguered piece of parchment for over an hour. Several times, as Davin continued to write, Kyrus tried to peek over the top of his employer’s writing desk, raising himself in his chair as much as he could without drawing attention to himself. He did not want to upset Davin by spying on him, especially when tonight was supposed to be the end of his week-long ordeal of curiosity, but he could not help himself. His work had fallen behind, but he silently assured himself that he would be able to catch up starting tomorrow, once he knew what all the mystery lately had been about. Until then, he more or less just gave up and tried to covertly indulge his curiosity, hopeless as it might seem with Davin apparently committed to keeping his secret until the promised time. Davin was an honest man, almost to a fault. But if the king ever had need of a spy, Kyrus doubted he would be able to find one craftier than Davin. Kyrus got the feeling that Davin had been hanging clues in front of him all week, enjoying the opportunity to have a little fun with him. He was sure that whatever Davin was writing had something to do with what he was going to find out that evening.

When evening finally came, Kyrus gratefully put away the parchment that had been tormenting him for the past few hours—a treatise on the enlightened state of the kingdom’s justice system commissioned by the local magistrate, Lord Kenrick Lionsvaen. He wiped his ink-stained fingertips on his handkerchief as best he could, though a black tinge of it remained, which never seemed to go away anymore. Hurrying up the stairs, he splashed a little water on his face and ran his more or less clean fingers through his hair to straighten out the tangles a bit. After a glance at his reflection in the mirror, he pronounced himself fit for public viewing. Kyrus generally did not give much thought to his appearance, but tonight was likely to be a bit of a spectacle, if he had judged Davin correctly. He would hate to be an embarrassment to his friend should he arrive looking like he had just lost a fight with his own ink pot.

The streets were quieting down as Kyrus made his way to the Brown Elk Tavern to meet Davin. The sun had just cast its last rays of light over the horizon and was giving way to twilight. Shopkeepers were closing their doors, peddlers packing up their carts and wagons, and fest halls were admitting their clientele for the evening. Kyrus passed a man carrying a large tin jug, reeking of kerosene, who was making his way down Westfall Street, lighting and refilling the lamps that kept the cobblestone street lit through the night. Kyrus nodded a greeting to the man, whose name he had never learned, and received a sidelong glance in return. Kyrus paid little heed to the indifferent response, since he evoked similar reactions from the majority of the people in town. He was not rich or good-looking or even particularly sociable, so he figured he had no reason to expect any better.

As he walked, he tried to mentally prepare himself for a letdown, knowing that he had built the whole thing up in his mind all week to the point where anything short of a knighthood or a visit from King Gorden himself would have been a disappointment. Whatever it turned out to be, he would not want Davin to think he was not pleased with it, even if it turned out not to be as grand as he had thought. The old man had been so kind to him over the years of his employment that he could not bear the thought of hurting his feelings. He practiced beaming his best surprised smile until it occurred to him that he must have looked like a simpleton to the few passersby he came across, grinning at nothing in particular as he walked.

He eventually reached the front door of the Brown Elk Tavern, a modest two-story structure with whitewashed walls and brown shutters. Light shone from the yellowed windows, casting a blurry tableaux of shadows onto the street that hinted as to what transpired inside. Raucous laughter and shouted conversation mixed with the tinkling of glass and stoneware to give the tavern a welcoming air. He breathed deep and steeled himself for whatever lay inside, then painted his best expectant look on his face and pushed the door open in front of him.

The Brown Elk was a well-loved establishment among the locals of Scar Harbor. Most nights, the large common room was filled to capacity, and on busy nights, the mezzanine level overlooking that common room would be close to overflowing its railings. That night, however, things were a bit out of sorts. A number of the small square tables that normally stood scattered about the room had been pushed together by one wall to form a makeshift banquet table, with a large tablecloth draped across them all to make the whole arrangement look quite proper. Crowded around the table were a great many people that Kyrus was familiar with, though many were just passing acquaintances. There were several members of the Scriveners Guild from both Scar Harbor and several nearby towns, a few neighbors from the buildings adjacent to Davin’s shop, merchants with whom he dealt frequently and some men he recognized as friends of Davin. At the head of the table sat Expert Davin Chartler himself, laughing at something one of the men next to him had said and hoisting a mug of ale. Next to Davin, and not taking a seat, was a distinguished looking older gentleman, dressed in black and standing straight, as if a board had been tucked down the back of his shirt.

A great cheer greeted Kyrus as his arrival was noted, and a number of tankards and mugs were raised.

Kyrus! they shouted in unison, giving the impression they had rehearsed the welcome ahead of time.

Have a seat, friend, said Greuder, owner of a local pastry shop, who sat near the far end of the table from Davin.

Greuder then stood and pulled out a chair for Kyrus, the seat exactly opposite Davin’s, at the other head of the table.

Kyrus’s face flushed bright crimson. Twenty or so people were more than he spoke to in a typical day, and he felt out of place at the center of their attention, like an actor thrust into a role at the last moment, never having read the script. Words failed him utterly. He must have stood there stunned for longer than he thought, because the next thing he knew Greuder had a hand on his shoulder, guiding him to his seat.

Am…Am I late? Kyrus managed to stammer out once the initial shock wore off.

No, no, not at all, my boy! yelled Davin down the length of the table. You are here right on time, as usual. It is just that I had arranged for everyone else to be early, you see.

Davin smiled, apparently at his own cleverness. Greuder managed to deliver the guest of honor to his seat and then resumed his own seat just to Kyrus’s right. Once everyone had settled down, Davin stood up and produced a small cylindrical case, the same case that had piqued Kyrus’s curiosity earlier in the day. He withdrew the contents—several sheets of parchment—and tapped them on the table to straighten them out a bit. Turning his attention to his guests, he cleared his throat.

Well, let us get down to the reason for this little gathering, shall we? Davin said. Friends and colleagues, as you may have already surmised, I have a great announcement to make. This gentleman to my left is Kornelius, steward to His Majesty, King Gorden.

At this, several guests gaped openly, and there was a bit of murmuring.

He is here at His Majesty’s behest to aid me in setting my affairs in order before I leave for Golis. I have been offered, and most gratefully accepted, His Majesty’s post as the next royal scribe.

Davin paused here, no doubt fully expecting his friends’ reaction. There were several who clapped, some cheered; Kyrus felt faint and could only stare dumbly at his employer.

"I have been given this opportunity because our dear colleague, Mr. Oriedel Conniton, heretofore His Majesty’s personal scribe, has fallen ill with an affliction resulting from his advanced years and has resigned the position to spend his remaining years with his family. I have already conveyed my well wishes to Mr. Conniton and his family, and I shall be visiting them on my way to Golis to deliver my respects in person.

As a member in good standing of the Scriveners Guild, I would like to toast His Majesty for his continued support of our craft, despite the ever-intrusive designs of the typesetters and their infernal presses. To King Gorden, may his wisdom be passed down through all the ages!

Everyone raised his mug and drank deeply, including Kyrus, who found that someone had pressed a tankard of ale into his hand while he was not paying attention.

Now, of course, there remains the small matter of what will become of my shop once I have moved out of it, Davin said. I must admit that over the years I have grown to become quite fond of the place, and I am loath to leave it behind. But, of course, duty calls, and I must answer! Therefore, I have made the decision that I must sell my beloved home, for that is what it is to me, as much as it has been a workplace. And as His Majesty is currently without the services of a royal scribe, the sale must be made in all haste. Since I could not bear to sell it to a stranger, I had thought to ask one of you to buy it from me. We shall auction it right now, with payment due immediately. Let us begin as modestly as possible, at a single eckle.

There was a general bewilderment at this sudden turn of events. That the men gathered at the table were ill prepared for such an undertaking was obvious. Kyrus could not believe what was happening. Davin was auctioning off his home…his home—the both of theirs. While it was perfectly within his right to do so, Kyrus could not believe Davin had not forewarned him.

Well, anyone…one eckle?

There was a general muttering up and down the length of the table, muttered excuses of coin purses left at home and the like. Greuder gave Kyrus an elbow in the side, and Kyrus noticed that nobody at the table would admit to having so much as a single one-eckle coin among them. Fumbling in his vest pocket, Kyrus withdrew the first coin his fingers closed on. He gave a quick glance at the denomination and slapped it down on the table.

Ten eckles! Kyrus cried as everyone turned their gazes in his direction.

Silence fell over the gathering as they waited for someone to respond.

Well, we have a bid of ten eckles. Do I hear any other bids?

Silence followed Davin’s question. After a moment, Davin deemed it suitable to continue, having given everyone enough time to protest should they so choose.

Ten eckles it is, then.

Davin smiled at Kyrus and beckoned to him with one hand—the hand not holding the speech that had turned Kyrus’s world on its head that evening.

Congratulations, my boy. Let us just get the deed signed over to you, which Kornelius has conveniently brought along.

At a nod from Davin, the old steward retrieved a small strongbox from the floor in the corner of the room, where it had lain unnoticed. Kornelius placed it on the table and withdrew from it some papers, a quill, and ink. Starting to put the pieces together and figure out what precisely was going on, Kyrus cautiously made his way down to Davin’s end of the table. The whole thing gave Kyrus the impression of one of the old, trite plays that Davin so enjoyed watching.

Kyrus and Davin both signed the contracts that Kornelius had drawn up to complete the sale, and Kyrus could not help but get the feeling that there was something missing. As if on cue, Davin interrupted his musings.

Of course, to keep the old place in use, there will have to be a member of the Scriveners Guild there to oversee things. Now, Kyrus, I know you have been painfully aware that I have been remiss in my duties to you as a mentor of late. You are long overdue for your journeymanship, as I have long admitted. Now close your eyes; I have something for you.

Kyrus did as he was told and shut his eyes, grinning broadly. At last, he would get his official membership in the guild. He had waited perhaps a year longer than was considered the norm, but today would make up for all that. He would also be the only journeyman in Eastern Acardia to own his own shop. He could hardly contain his excitement as he first heard Davin step around behind him and then the clatter of a fine metal chain. He felt Davin lower the chain over his head; it had to be his journeyman’s medallion, a symbol of his new status as a guild member.

Now, Davin said, I know that the guild does not forbid a journeyman from maintaining his own shop, but the general public does not place their trust lightly, and it is difficult for a journeyman to gain that trust, not having been recognized by the guild as an expert in his field. You should not have to worry, though.

Kyrus’s eyes shot open. He looked down at his chest and did not see the journeyman’s medallion he had first expected. What he saw was the emblem of an Expert Scrivener: a golden S curled around a quill. He spun around to face Davin, the question on his mind written upon his face as clearly as his gifted hands could ever have managed.

At the last meeting of the guild, when I found out about my new station, I remembered to recommend you, Davin said. I had some of your work along with me for them to review, and I had to somewhat sheepishly confess to my own dereliction in not presenting your case sooner. Needless to say… Davin reached over and gave Kyrus’s medallion a meaningful flick. …they were impressed. Oh, to be sure, there were a few who thought that despite your talent, you should progress through the ranks the same way everyone else has to, but these are difficult times. The Typesetters Guild is gaining prominence as they refine those blasted machines that make a mockery of our art. We cannot let a brilliant scribe languish as a journeyman when his works should be heralded as those of a true expert. Now enough of all this seriousness. Let us celebrate!

Davin picked up his mug of ale, and the other guests did likewise, raising their voices in toasts of congratulation for Davin and Kyrus both. Another mug found its way into Kyrus’s hand, and he lifted it along with the others. Few among the guests were hard drinkers, and the night’s revelry was fairly brief. Kyrus, who rarely drank anything more potent than wine, was the first to pass out.

3

AFTER THE BLOODLESS NIGHT

By dawn, most of the men were emotionally spent. With the long night finally past, the threat of the goblin attack seemed to diminish. It was almost as if, believing the goblins would attack at night, the threat seemed over with the arrival of the morning sun. Few of them had slept much during the night, between the added watches and chain armor pressing down on their chests like the heavy hand of waiting death.

The cheer of morning seemed to banish such dark thoughts. The singing of morning birds and the rosy cheer of the day’s first rays of sunlight seemed at odds with the thought of death lurking out among the trees. There was some talk that perhaps the goblins had thought better of their attack and silently withdrawn back from wherever they had come. Some believed what they were saying; others just needed to hear some words of confidence to assuage their uncertainty and nervousness. Brannis did not like it.

Let the men say what they would, but Brannis had the nagging feeling that the goblins were scheming something. They would not have delayed their attack just to cost our men a night’s sleep, would they? Perhaps…

There had been no hunting the previous night, so the morning meal was to be nothing but cured meat strips and water—hardly an appetizing prospect. Brannis made his way over to claim his dawn feast from the army’s stores and ran into Iridan, his eyes sunken and bloodshot, appearing a bit wobbly on his feet.

Fair morning, what say? asked Brannis with a smile.

Brannis had managed a restful sleep despite the circumstances and felt refreshed. His dreams had been growing more vivid of late, and he seemed to sleep the deeper for it, not awakening throughout the night as so many of the other knights had.

Strange to have such vivid dreams about such mundane drivel. What about copying texts for stodgy old men should be so worth remembering? Am I trying to tell myself I would be best off retiring and taking up a trade? The thought amused Brannis. He had never used to remember what he dreamed at night and wished it was not always the same bland stuff. Why not fair lasses and glorious battles some night?

I would not know; it is still last night for me, Iridan said. I never thought I would envy anyone a night’s sleep in full armor. Guess I was wrong on that count. Hey, when can we call off the goblin watch and let me get some sleep?

I will have some patrols search the surrounding area for signs of the goblins. I do not think they can hide from us in daylight in any threatening numbers. If the patrols do not turn anything up, well, I guess we will see about letting you sleep a bit. Brannis leaned closer and added in a low voice, I can see now why necromancy is forbidden. I cannot imagine anything dead would look less horrible than you do right now.

Despite his fatigue, Iridan could not help but smile and chuckle a bit. The playful swat that he aimed for the back of the grinning Brannis’s head missed badly and drew an amused snicker at his expense from the few men nearby.

Sure, Brannis, enjoy this now. I will be getting you back once I have… Iridan paused for a yawn. "…gotten a good sleep in me. I will not be forgetting! Maybe the next wolves I bring into camp will be doing their business in your tent." They had been friends since childhood, so Iridan was freer than most to joke with the battalion commander.

He looked at Brannis out of the corner of his eye and tried to feign a menacing look. This drew a good-natured laugh from everyone, as Iridan was hardly in any condition to look menacing. Brannis nearly toppled his friend with a hearty clap on the back and helped him to a seat and dawn feast.

Goblins! one of the sentries screamed.

While the goblins were as silent in daylight as at night, there was no denying that they had given up some advantage in stealth with their dawn raid. One of the sentries had spotted them.

To arms! Form a shield wall just inside the camp perimeter, Brannis ordered as he plunked his helmet onto his head and secured the chinstrap. Keep the shields low and remember that the goblins cannot reach above your shields, only under and between.

The knights were gathering behind the rapidly forming wall of men with shields and spears, each wielding a pair of goblin swords—whip-thin rods of steel meant to overcome the goblin advantage of quickness. Only Brannis, carrying Massacre, was differently armed. And, of course, Iridan, who was neither armed nor armored, though he had been given a chain shirt identical to those of the commoner soldiers.

Poor Iridan, thought Brannis, no sleep for him after all.

The young sorcerer had shunned the armor he had been given, planning to rely solely on his own magic for his defense. If the goblins were half as smart as everyone claimed, they would pick him out of the crowd easily enough anyway, and he preferred to be free of the awkward armor to better cast his spells.

Indreithio anamakne ubtaio wanuzar pronedook, intoned Iridan.

Brannis spared a glance over his shoulder to check on the spell Iridan was casting. He was holding his arms skyward, fully extended, with his fingers slowly weaving an intricate pattern in the air. Brannis recognized it as a shielding spell, and from the way Iridan was gesturing, one meant to form a barrier overhead to prevent the goblins’ thrown weapons from penetrating, like giving a house a sturdy roof to keep out the rain.

Brannis was just behind the front lines when the first of the goblin missiles sailed in. He shouted for his men to keep down behind their shields and not to raise them up. All but a handful managed to put aside their instinct to bring their shields up to cover their heads. A second wave of thrown spears and daggers quickly followed the first, and with few targets presenting themselves, those few went down quickly amid a storm of hurled blades.

The sound of the goblin sorcerers’ spell chants were drowned out by the sudden war cry of their first wave of infantry, a horrible chattering cacophony bringing to mind a flock of startled chickens in an echoing canyon. Yet the spells were cast—heard by the defenders or not—and a blast of lightning shattered the ranks of men to one side, while two bolts of white-hot aether hammered into Iridan’s shielding spell, illuminating the transparent barrier for a flickering moment. The shield appeared almost to buckle, but it held and the aether-bolts dispersed.

The goblins pressed their advantage where the lightning had cleared a hole in the Kadrins’ shield wall. Two knights rushed in to fill the breach, a burning scent heavy in the air around them. They stood over the bodies of the fallen soldiers and continue serving their duty on the line.

Both sides now had to contend with the effects of the fog. There was still enough visibility at head height that the humans could clearly make out where their allies were. The goblins, mired in thicker fog whose nature they had somewhat underestimated, were having difficulty finding their footing. Brannis sported a rather wicked, self-satisfied grin when he heard the startled yelps of the goblins that stumbled into one of the vast number of latrines his men had been digging the last several days. He had figured that a waist-deep hole to a man was plenty to take a goblin out of the fighting.

The goblins, however, were nothing if not adaptable. One of their sorcerers quickly cast a spell that created a gale of wind that dispersed the remaining fog in the span of but two breaths. Another created a dimness in the air not entirely dissimilar to the fog but which acted to dim the light from the morning sun over the battlefield, creating an artificial night.

Iridan acted quickly to counter the latter effect and nullified the advantage that goblin eyes held in the dark.

Aleph kalai abdu.

He quickly spoke the few necessary words and made a quick circling gesture with his right hand, with the tip of his middle finger touching his thumb. It was the simplest of all spells and the first one taught to every student at the Academy. It was a spell simple enough that Brannis nearly had the strength to cast it. Instantly the false night was replaced by an equally false noontime, as a bright ball of light appeared overhead near Iridan’s outstretched hand, the harsh white light cutting through the dimming spell the goblins had fashioned.

The spell had worked well and taken back the advantage that the goblin spell had bought for the few moments prior. But it had also marked Iridan clearly in the eyes of the goblins. The way the spell was worded, it was difficult to make it appear more than a pace or so from the hand from which it originated. In fact, it took some skill and practice even to keep the light from emanating from one’s own fingertip. Iridan might as well have painted a sign reading sorcerer and hung it around his neck.

Brannis had been calling out orders, orchestrating the Kadrins’ defenses, when he heard a high whistle sound above the noise of battle. It came in two quick bursts, a longer whistle, then two more short: goblin signals, he realized. He had not yet become engaged in the combat; his own sword was far too dangerous to have it drawn and swinging about in close quarters with his own men. They were holding up well. They had resisted the urge to break ranks and attempt to press the goblins back into the forest, which was now starting to burn. Iridan’s shielding spell had somehow managed to turn a ball of fire from one of the goblins back at their own ranks. Brannis watched to see what came of their enemy's whistle.

From behind the lines, Brannis was the first to notice the goblins’ reinforcements charge in from the south and west. They were not as numerous as the main force attacking from the east, but they presented a tactical problem: no defenders were prepared to hold those sides against attack. The shield wall had held so far, and the knights had done well to prevent the goblins from coming around the flanks, but this they were not going to be able to stop in time.

Pull back and bring the shield wall around to face the south as well! Brannis shouted.

As the knights helped direct the troop movements to carry out their commander’s orders, Iridan watched Brannis draw his sword and prepare to defend the interior of the camp. Iridan himself was behind the lines and knew they were unlikely to survive this battle without his magic, so long as the goblin sorcerers still lived. He stayed watching both his friend's position and for places his spells might be needed.

The first attackers among the goblins stopped short. They had been eager to rush in against a lone human knight and an unarmed sorcerer, relishing the glory of cutting off the head of the army. But the sight of an almost ogre-sized human, wielding an enchanted sword that glowed a foreboding green and trailed a strange mist in its wake, gave them pause. As the goblins at the forefront slowed, those lagging behind caught up to the front of the charge, and their renewed numbers swelled their courage once again, and they recommenced the attack en masse.

Iridan saw the goblins heading for Brannis and started another spell.

Haru bedaessi leoki kwatuan gelora.

Iridan held his arms wide with his fingers spread apart. Then, rapidly, as he finished his chant, he drew his hands together and, just before they met, turned his palms upward and raised both hands overhead. He was only a few paces from the cooking fire and that was what had inspired this particular spell. As the aether flowed through him, he directed it into the various pots, spoons, bowls, and ladles that the Kadrins had brought along with them. These various items rose quickly into the air to hover around waist height and with a commanding gesture from Iridan toward the onrushing goblins, they flew.

In all of Kadrin history, there was perhaps no instance where the contents of a larder had been put to such deadly use on the field of battle. A storm of crockery hurtled through the air with the speed of a diving hawk. The great clanging and splattering sounds that resulted hinted at one of the greatest culinary assaults of all time. Though it sounded quite incongruous in the middle of a battle of spell and steel, the charge from the west was brought near to a halt.

Just a few steps away, Brannis was beset by onrushing goblins, leading with their spears. Three-wide they charged;three at once they were cut down. The goblins were astonished by the speed at which the blade cut through the air…and spears…and goblins. That is, all but the first three were astonished, for those at the forefront of the charge never realized what had become of them.

The rest of the goblins charging Brannis drew back and began to try to encircle him, staying just out of his reach. Brannis kept Massacre waving back and forth in front of him, leaving the green mist wafting in the air behind the blade and forming a hazardous barrier for the goblins to cross.

The goblins were sensitive creatures, naturally better attuned to the aether than were humans. They could sense the power in the weapon and thus had some misgivings about letting the mist touch them. One who had gotten a bit too close was already unsteady on his feet and did not look well at all. Several gave up on Brannis altogether and instead tried to get past him to the sorcerer, whom they saw was much distracted by other concerns.

Brannis, the shield wall! Iridan called out, drawing Brannis’s attention to a gap that had formed.

As Brannis turned that way, he heard Iridan immediately began another spell: Kanethio mandraxae.

Iridan crossed his palms facing outward and aimed toward the breach. A blue-white ray of light shone out from him, wide as his shoulders, and he ducked his head to keep the brightness from hurting his eyes. The blast was one of pure aether force and left a large number of goblins missing entirely when the blinding glare left the spot, and everyone could see there again. But the smoking ruin of a gap was once again quickly filled by a few of the remaining goblins.

Iridan winced in pain as the aether blast took more power to cast than his body was accustomed to. Brannis knew that every vein in his thin body must have been like a river of fire. Brannis had studied along with Iridan at the Academy, before being expelled for lack of talent. The pain was really in the mind, and Iridan’s body would still function if he had the will to endure through it.

Brannis had taken advantage of the blinding light to cut down most of the goblins facing him. His back had been to the blast, and his adversaries had seen it directly, blinding them temporarily and giving Brannis an easy time of dispatching them. With the quick respite in the battle, Brannis took stock of his army and was dismayed. Both sides had been ravaged during the fight. Fewer than half of his troops were still standing, and goblin bodies littered the battlefield. Even as he pondered this, a plume of fire erupted from nearby and engulfed several more of his men.

Brannis spotted a goblin sorcerer—one of two that he had figured remained in the battle—at the source of the fire. Distractedly slashing through a goblin that had thought to catch him in an unguarded moment, Brannis charged across the battlefield toward the deadly goblin sorcerer.

The goblin spotted him as well and began another spell. Brannis understood nothing of goblin speech or how they used magic. Not the fleetest of runners, he could only hope he was fast enough to close the distance in time. He saw the goblin cup his hands together as something grew between them. It began as a tiny puff of golden light and expanded as Brannis watched, his eyes intent on nothing else. The energy grew into a globe the size of Brannis's fist. The goblin sorcerer was struggling to hold it in check, squeezing it between its bony hands. He tried to slow himself as he saw the goblin bringing its hands around behind the globe, realizing he was not going to be able to close the distance in time. His momentum was too great to dodge to the side. The goblin let his spell loose straight at Brannis's chest.

Brannis saw the blast coming and did the only thing he could think to do. He brought his sword up in front of him, tip pointing down, into line with the oncoming missile. With his left arm, he tried to shield his face from the blast.

He felt a wrenching pain in his right shoulder, and the sword was torn from his grasp. There was an impact on his breastplate that felt like someone had just slung a sack of flour into his chest, but he managed to keep his balance and hardly break stride.

When he brought his other arm away from his face, Brannis caught sight of one particularly astonished goblin who stood gaping at him. The little creature turned to run, but Brannis was running full out and dove onto the sorcerer before he could get more than two steps away. Pinning the goblin was child’s play as Brannis easily outweighed the sorcerer five times over. The goblin tried casting one last spell, but two heavy blows from Brannis’s gauntleted fist were more than the creature’s frail body could endure.

Iridan and the last remaining goblin sorcerer had torn into each other’s forces in a fury of magical power while not directly encountering each other. The goblin sorcerer had seen too much of the human’s magic to want to test himself against Iridan directly, but now he had a much better chance. Having snuck around the fallen left flank of the human army, he crouched low by the brook and, quietly as he could, timed a spell for when Iridan was most vulnerable.

Iridan had just cast another aether blast spell, figuring that his own body was a price he was willing to pay to save the rest of the army. He was beginning to feel nauseous with the pain of his last casting, once more having pushed himself too far, when he heard a crackling sound to his left. Turning, he saw a ball of lightning heading toward him and panicked.

Iridan raised his hands out in front of him and reflexively drew in all the aether he could muster. Without a word of arcane or a conscious thought, a translucent barrier formed in the air between his body and the balled lightning, bowl-shaped and facing his enemy. When the two forces collided, Iridan felt the impact in his shoulders, as if his outstretched hands had been supporting the barrier. The barrier flashed but remained intact. The goblin’s spell rebounded from the barrier and right back at him. The goblin had no time to react.

Iridan had another problem, however: he had drawn in more aether than he could control. It felt like a wildfire had been ignited behind his eyes. He clutched at the sides of his head and fell to his knees, screaming incoherently. With what little of his mind that was not muddled by pain, he tried to force the aether out of his body and into another vessel. His training would have had him divert the aether into fire and heat the nearest water available to him, but he was too blinded by the pain to find the stream, and so he randomly started to release the aether wherever he was able.

The few goblins that had not begun to retreat when they saw their last sorcerer fall tried to take advantage of Iridan’s infirmity and finish him off. They did not realize their mistake until they burst into flames as they drew too near the human sorcerer.

The ground around Iridan began to steam, and the grass withered to ash within several paces of him. The dozen or so goblins still able to move were now in retreat, and the few Kadrins still standing sought some way to aid their sorcerer’s plight.

There was little any of them could do, though, and a moment later, with a convulsive gasp that sounded like a horrible mixture of pain and relief, Iridan collapsed onto the blistered turf.

Reviews for Knight in the Nighttime

[ben_harnwell · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A solid 3 star read.
The story revolves around four characters who exist in two different worlds.
A knight who although coming from a family of strong sorcerers find himself without any magic. He is linked (via his dreams) to a simple scribe who lives in a world without open magic. And he Kryus, seems to inherit all of Brannis's magical ability.
A pirate king (from Kyrus's world) is linked to a powerful age from Brannis's - and soon the four are linked against each other in a war.
Simple writing (often making me ask why the author keeps telling me instead of showing me) however, it is a compelling read and one I enjoyed.
Looking forward to hearing (reading) more about these characters and worlds.
I read the kindle version which is reasonably priced.